


You can see him, too?

by boredandtired



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And for a bit things are too good to be true, Angst, John can't believe it, Lots of Angst, No happiness at all pretty much, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock comes back, Sorry?, Until it all makes sense again, no i'm not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredandtired/pseuds/boredandtired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after his fall, Sherlock can finally come home. John isn't surprised to see him, why should he be? (Short, one chapter fic about Sherlock's return.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can see him, too?

It was three full years before Sherlock was able to come home. Three years full of running and hiding and fighting and manipulating all to take down the empire that Jim Moriarty had left behind. He didn’t want to leave John so hopelessly in the dark, but he had to. If John found out that he was alive, people would see the link between them again, and he couldn’t put the ex-soldier in that sort of danger. Not after he was used as a game piece for Moriarty last time. But he could come home now, and that was all that mattered, Sherlock reasoned. Everything would go right back to normal, he told himself as he made his way to the familiar flat that he once called home. He slipped past the unlocked door and made a cursory inspection of the sitting room before noticing the familiar frame of John in the kitchen. He was thinner, it seemed, and he looked frail. Sherlock let himself into the kitchen for further inspection. He made note of the trembling fingers, the purple stains under his eyes, the stains on what Sherlock remembered to be his favorite jumper, and his eyes, eerily empty of any sparkle of life. “Hello, John.”  
***  
Nothing had been the same since Sherlock jumped. It still hurt just to think about it, all of the events that led to one final fall. All the words left unspoken, any sort of explanation buried with the body, and a million different apologies still hanging from John’s lips. The thought haunted him that he could have done something about it. After all, he was a soldier; he was a doctor, it would be his job, if anyone’s, to keep people safe. He didn’t do his job well enough though, apparently, and though everyone told him that it wasn’t his fault, he could never quite shake the suspicion that it was. Since then, the days had grown longer. There were no wild adventures, no silly arguments about whether or not it was hygienic to keep body parts in such close proximity to their food, nothing to keep him occupied. It had left an effect, of course. It began with just sleeplessness, which his therapist passed off as a normal symptom of grief that would go just as soon as it had come. Then came the food. He couldn’t quite bring himself to eat anymore. He only ate when Molly or Mrs. Hudson dropped by to check up on him, and even then it wasn’t very much. That was when they started suspecting that the PTSD had returned. He didn’t quite care if it had, though. He didn’t care about anything at all. He even stopped going to those damn appointments after his therapist suggested searching for closure by cleaning out Sherlock’s things from their flat. Obviously she didn’t understand, he reasoned. There was no way he could get rid of Sherlock’s things. The nightmares soon returned. Whenever he did manage to sleep, he was haunted by images of the war, of Sherlock falling, of being tortured, of Moriarty, of the sickening thud followed by the pool of blood. The words still rang in his ears. “Goodbye, John.” “He’s my friend. Please. I’m a doctor, he’s my friend!” Then came the auditory hallucinations. He could hear Sherlock scoffing at his ignorance as he did the shopping. He could hear him criticizing every aspect of their ignorant society as he watched telly. It was why when he was sitting down and having a bit of tea, he wasn’t shocked to hear Sherlock greet him. The newest development, it seemed, were visual hallucinations. Three years had passed from the day Sherlock had died, and John reasoned that he was finally going mad. Still, he couldn’t help but to smile. At least he got to see Sherlock again, even if it was at the price of his sanity. “Good to see you, Sherlock.”  
***  
It seemed almost impossible. John greeted him with a smile and a calm formality as though they had only just seen each other last week. There didn’t seem to be any confusion or hostility or disbelief in his eyes, just a welcoming nod of approval before going back to sipping at the mug of what Sherlock could only assume to be tea in his hands. He gave John a tight-lipped smile, testing the waters carefully. “It’s been a while.” He stated casually, as though he was talking about something as non-consequential as the weather instead of his return from the grave.   
“It has, hasn’t it?” John agreed. He seemed to be accepting this without any difficulty. Surely after three years, John’s faith in him couldn’t be so unwavering that he’d been expecting Sherlock to come home could it? Sherlock took a moment to wonder if John had figured it out for himself that Sherlock was alive, and was simply biding his time until the detective returned. It was impossible, he concluded. He made sure that no one, not even the person who knew him best, would be able to determine that he was alive. He went so far as to enlist Mycroft’s help, a drastic measure that he detested even considering, to make sure that his survival would be the best kept secret in England. Still, if John was going to accept this so easily, Sherlock wasn’t about to stir up trouble by asking questions. He nodded at John before going about his business in getting back to what was once normal life. He made his way to his room to find that other than the accumulation of dust, everything was just as he had left it. John hadn’t moved a thing.  
***  
Life went on about as normally as possible from that point on. John didn’t bother eating, but he had taken to drinking several cups of tea a day, mainly to stay warm. No matter how many layers he was wearing, the flat always seemed too cold for him. As a doctor, he knew it was because of the exhaustion combined with his low calorie intake, but it didn’t bother him enough to make him change his ways. Sherlock began his experiments again, doing all that he could to make sure that he wasn’t overstepping any sort of boundaries that may have been erected in his absence. John spent his evenings reading or staring blankly out the window or occasionally watching telly. On the nights that he did permit himself a bit of rubbish television as a distraction, Sherlock joined him on the sofa and made his slightly rude but nonetheless amusing comments. Every so often, John would snap. There were no warnings and it was hard to tell what caused it, but something small and seemingly inconsequential would have him yelling at Sherlock, going off about “I don’t know why you’ve even stayed so long. You’ve never stayed longer than a few hours at a time.” and “The others would go mad if they were the ones seeing you.” Sherlock accepted the outbursts wordlessly; they were far kinder than the sort of treatment he had expected to receive.   
***  
Their quiet, regular lives were disturbed on the Wednesday evening after Sherlock had made his return. The detective was huddled up in his room, cursing how delicate and therefore worthless ribonucleic acid had proved to be in his research while John stared blankly at a book he had promised himself that he would read. A series of delicate knocks on their door snapped John out of his reverie, dragging him back to reality. “Come in,” he called. There was no use going to get the door, it was always unlocked nowadays. Anyone who bothered to visit him knew that, but they were generally kind enough to knock anyway, to give him some pretense of privacy.   
“John? Dear, I’ve brought you some biscuits. They’ll do you good. Put a bit of colour back into your cheeks.” Mrs. Hudson announced, carrying in a plate full of the baked goods.   
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” John nodded at her appreciatively. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that a majority of the biscuits would likely end up being thrown away. She set the plate down in front of him. John took a biscuit and gave his landlady a half-hearted smile before he began nibbling at it.   
“You’re wasting away in here, love. You’ve got to get a bit of fresh air in here at least, if you won’t go out.” She told him, going over to the window before opening it to let in the breeze. “There. See? That’ll be better for yo- Oh.” Mrs. Hudson turned around to face John before freezing. Sherlock heard the familiar voice and he couldn’t quite resist coming out of his room to greet her, even if it meant putting his experiment on hold for a bit. He smiled at her enthusiastically, pleased to finally be able to see her again.   
“Mrs. Hudson. I’ve missed you.” Sherlock reported. She stared at him before walking over slowly, reaching out a hand to him.  
“You’re home. Oh, Sherlock, you’re home. It’s all been a mess without you.” She told him, a tear slipping down her cheek. John watched them carefully as every ounce of colour left his face. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. Sherlock was dead. All the pieces finally came together as he tested his voice, not quite trusting it to hold.   
“Wait a minute.” John said quietly, his confusion clearly painted on his face. “You can see him, too?”


End file.
